“He’s overwhelmed with emotion,” Emily explained seriously. “Miss Whitfield says Shakespeare can do that to sensitive souls.”
“Indeed,” Aaron managed, fighting his own urge to laugh.
Emily launched back into her soliloquy, mangling half the words but delivering them with such passion that accuracy seemed irrelevant. “Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father and refuse thy name!”
Buttercup rolled onto his back, legs in the air, the doublet bunching around his neck.
“He’s dying of love,” Emily interpreted.
This time, Louise’s laughter couldn’t be contained. It bubbled out of her, bright and unexpected as spring water. She covered her face with both hands, her shoulders shaking, and Aaron found himself transfixed.
A true, heartfelt laugh. Not the polite chuckles of dinner conversation, but real, helpless mirth.
“I’m sorry,” Louise gasped between giggles. “It’s just … his expression … he looks so tragic …”
Aaron looked at Buttercup, whose tongue now lolled out the side of his mouth while his legs remained skyward, and felt his own control crack. A chuckle escaped him, rusty from disuse.
“Even Shakespeare himself couldn’t have imagined such pathos,” he said, then pressed his lips together.
Emily beamed at what she took as praise. “Should I do the death scene? Buttercup is very good at playing dead.”
“Perhaps we should spare Romeo further tragedy,” Cecilia suggested, though her eyes sparkled with amusement. “He seems to have suffered enough for art.”
As if in agreement, Buttercup wriggled out of his doublet entirely and padded over to Aaron, resting his massive head on his knee with a look that pleaded for attention.
“Et tu, Buttercup?” Aaron scratched behind the dog’s ears. “Though I suppose I’m mixing the plays now.”
“He knows quality when he sees it,” Cecilia observed. “Dogs have excellent judgment about character.”
Louise rose to help Emily down from her makeshift stage. “You were wonderful, darling. You could perform at Drury Lane Theater.”
“What’s that?”
“The grandest theater in all of London,” Louise explained, unpinning the cloak from Emily’s shoulders. “Where all the finest actors perform for the king.”
“Did they have dogs in their plays?”
“I don’t believe so.”
“Then our theater is better,” Emily declared with six-year-old logic.
Aaron watched Louise smile at her sister, smoothing her hair with gentle fingers. The softness of the moment, along with his aunt’s smile, made his chest tighten.
He wanted. He wanted things he had no right to want.
“We should clean up,” Louise said, looking at the disordered room. “Mrs. Hammond will have fits if she sees what we’ve done to her drawing room.”
“Mrs. Hammond has no soul for the theater,” Cecilia declared. “But you’re right. Emily, help me gather Buttercup’s costume pieces. Or what remains of them.”
As they worked to restore order, Aaron helped by moving furniture back to its proper place. His fingers brushed Louise’s as they both reached for the same chair, and she jerked back as if burned.
“I should check on the accounts,” she said quickly, not meeting his eyes.
“Louise,” Emily called before she could escape. “Are you happy now?”
Louise froze in the doorway. “What do you mean, darling?”
“You laughed. Really laughed. You haven’t done that in forever.”
